Hugh Lamb – In the Dark: Tales of Terror by E. Nesbit (страница 7)
He looked at the portrait. So did I.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that was her very face. I was a bit scared and said something – I don’t know what – she laughed and said, did I think she was a ghost? and I answered back; and I stayed talking to her over the churchyard wall till ’twas quite dark, and the glow-worms were out in the wet grass all along the way home.
‘Next night, I saw her again; and the next, and the next. Always at twilight time; and if I passed any lovers leaning on the stiles in the marshes it was nothing to me now.’
Again my uncle paused. ‘It was very long ago,’ he said shyly, ‘and I’m an old man; but I know what youth means, and happiness, though I was always lame, and the girls used to laugh at me. I don’t know how long it went on – you don’t measure time in dreams – but at last your grandfather said I looked as if I had one foot in the grave, and he would be sending me to stay with our kin at Bath, and take the waters. I had to go. I could not tell my father why I would rather die than go.’
‘What was her name, uncle?’ I asked.
‘She never would tell me her name, and why should she? I had names enough in my heart to call her by. Marriage? My dear, even then I knew marriage was not for me. But I met her night after night, always in our churchyard where the yew trees were, and the old crooked gravestones so thick in the grass. It was there we always met and always parted. The last time was the night before I went away. She was very sad, and dearer than life itself. And she said:
‘“If you come back before the new moon, I shall meet you here just as usual. But if the new moon shines on this grave and you are not here – you will never see me again any more.”
‘She laid her hand on the tomb against which we had been leaning. It was an old, lichened weather-worn stone, and its inscription was just
SUSANNAH KINGSNORTH,
‘“I shall be here,” I said.
‘“I mean it,” she said, very seriously and slowly, “it is no fancy. You will be here when the new moon shines?”
‘I promised, and after a while we parted.
‘I had been with my kinsfolk at Bath for nearly a month. I was to go home on the next day when, turning over a case in the parlour, I came upon that miniature. I could not speak for a minute. At last I said, with dry tongue, and heart beating to the tune of heaven and hell:
‘“Who is this?”
‘“That?” said my aunt. “Oh! she was betrothed to one of our family years ago, but she died before the wedding. They say she was a bit of witch. A handsome one, wasn’t she?”
‘I looked again at the face, the lips, the eyes of my dear lovely love, whom I was to meet tomorrow night when the new moon shone on that tomb in our churchyard.
‘“Did you say she was dead?” I asked, and I hardly knew my own voice.
‘“Years and years ago! Her name’s on the back – ‘Susannah Kingsnorth,
‘That was in 1823.’ My uncle stopped short.
‘What happened?’ I asked breathlessly.
‘I believe I had a fit,’ my uncle answered slowly, ‘at any rate, I was very ill.’
‘And you missed the new moon on the grave?’
‘I missed the new moon on the grave.’
‘And you never saw her again?’
‘I never saw her again—’
‘But, uncle, do you really believe? Can the dead – was she – did you—’
My uncle took out his pipe and filled it.
‘It’s a long time ago,’ he said, ‘a many, many years. Old man’s tales, my dear! Old man’s tales. Don’t you take any notice of them.’
He lighted the pipe, and puffed silently a moment or two before he said: ‘But I know what youth means, and love and happiness, though I was always lame, and the girls used to laugh at me.’
I
‘But true or not true, your brother is a scoundrel. No man – no decent man – tells such things.’
‘He did not tell me. How dare you suppose it? I found the letter in his desk; and since she was my friend and your sweetheart, I never thought there could be any harm in my reading anything she might write to my brother. Give me back the letter. I was a fool to tell you.’
Ida Helmont held out her hand for the letter.
‘Not yet,’ I said, and I went to the window. The dull red of a London sunset burned on the paper, as I read in the pretty handwriting I knew so well, and had kissed so often:
DEAR: I do – I do love you; but it’s impossible. I must marry Arthur. My honour is engaged. If he would only set me free – but he never will. He loves me foolishly. But as for me – it is you I love – body, soul, and spirit. There is no one in my heart but you. I think of you all day, and dream of you all night. And we must part. Goodbye – Yours, yours, yours,
ELVIRA
I had seen the handwriting, indeed, often enough. But the passion there was new to me. That I had not seen.
I turned from the window. My sitting-room looked strange to me. There were my books, my reading-lamp, my untasted dinner still on the table, as I had left it when I rose to dissemble my surprise at Ida Helmont’s visit – Ida Helmont, who now sat looking at me quietly.
‘Well – do you give me no thanks?’
‘You put a knife in my heart, and then ask for thanks?’
‘Pardon me,’ she said, throwing up her chin. ‘I have done nothing but show you the truth. For that one should expect no gratitude – may I ask, out of pure curiosity, what you intend to do?’
‘Your brother will tell you—’
She rose suddenly, very pale, and her eyes haggard.
‘You will not tell my brother?’
She came towards me – her gold hair flaming in the sunset light.
‘Why are you so angry with me?’ she said. ‘Be reasonable. What else could I do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Would it have been right not to tell you?’
‘I don’t know. I only know that you’ve put the sun out, and I haven’t got used to the dark yet.’
‘Believe me,’ she said, coming still nearer to me, and laying her hands in the lightest touch on my shoulders, ‘believe me, she never loved you.’
There was a softness in her tone that irritated and stimulated me. I moved gently back, and her hands fell by her sides.
‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘I have behaved very badly. You were quite right to come, and I am not ungrateful. Will you post a letter for me?’
I sat down and wrote:
I give you back your freedom. The only gift of mine that can please you now.—
ARTHUR
I held the sheet out to Miss Helmont, but she would not look at it. I folded, sealed, stamped, and addressed it.
‘Goodbye,’ I said then, and gave her the letter. As the door closed behind her, I sank into my chair, and cried like a child, or a fool, over my lost play-thing – the little, dark-haired woman who loved someone else with ‘body, soul, and spirit’.
I did not hear the door open or any foot on the floor, and therefore I started when a voice behind me said:
‘Are you so very unhappy? Oh, Arthur, don’t think I am not sorry for you!’
‘I don’t want anyone to be sorry for me, Miss Helmont,’ I said.
She was silent a moment. Then, with a quick, sudden, gentle movement she leaned down and kissed my forehead – and I heard the door softly close. Then I knew that the beautiful Miss Helmont loved me.
At first that thought only fleeted by – a light cloud against a grey sky – but the next day reason woke, and said:
‘Was Miss Helmont speaking the truth? Was it possible that—’